


Pacify

by Inky_Blackheart



Series: Power (And Control) [2]
Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coitus Interruptus, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, God damn it Griffith, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Morning Wood, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Blackheart/pseuds/Inky_Blackheart
Summary: "“I do so love your pet names.” Griffith bit into Guts’ neck. Guts tried to muffle his cry with his fist, but Griffith reached out and pinned his hand to his side. Guts squirmed, half out of annoyance, and half out of the sick churning fear that made itself known in his gullet. He tried to tell himself that he was fine, that this wasn’t like that other time, and that he could absolutely throw Griffith off if he needed to."Griffith tries to take Guts without lube, Guts has a panic attack, and Griffith comforts him with a gentle touch.
Relationships: Griffith/Guts (Berserk)
Series: Power (And Control) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006137
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	Pacify

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Rape flashback, panic attacks
> 
> Set before "Prize", expanding on the incident Griffith mentioned where Guts kicked him in the chest.

**PACIFY**

Guts wasn’t waiting for Griffith.

Nope.

He wasn’t hoping that his apparent—well, he wasn’t really sure what to call Griffith, other than the prick who kicked his ass and then took it—his apparent new lover (ugh) would finish training exercises and come to their tent. He was just bored. That was all. He was still healing, and walking to the tree behind the tent to piss was a damn chore, so he wasn’t in any shape to either run away or walk around the camp by himself. Griffith had a few books in his tent, and the pictures were fine, but Guts had never been taught to read and there was no entertaining to be found in the written word. He hated it, but Griffith was his only source of...anything. Occasionally the little angry woman stuck her head into the tent to check on him, and the band’s surgeon had come to change his dressings a few times, but otherwise, he had Griffith and Griffith alone.

And he wasn’t waiting for him.

Nope.

He just wanted Griffith to bring his clothes back, so he could wear literally anything other than a sheet to cover his man bits.

He didn’t enjoy the man’s company, either. He just didn’t have any other choices.

Yeah, that was it.

He definitely didn’t wake up horny, with a sore dick and worse balls, and even if he had, it wouldn't be Griffith he’d want. It would be some...lady. Not the angry lady, though. She scared him. She also had a mean right hook.

The flaps of the tent rustled and Guts shot up, pain coursing through his body at the sudden movement. He heard a chuckle as the late evening light streamed into the tent. He stuck his tongue out, shutting his eyes against the sunlight. “You’re sick, you know that? Laughing at another man’s pain.”

“I’m not laughing at that.” The flaps were closed and Guts opened his eyes again. Griffith was in his usual white shirt, loose and flowing, showcasing his collarbone and surprisingly broad shoulders. His hair was tied into a loose ponytail, and Griffith undid it as he walked into the tent. Guts was briefly transfixed by the sight of the white-blonde curls falling free and cascading down Griffith’s neck. Griffith met his stare and winked. Guts huffed and crossed his arms, turning away. “I was laughing,” Griffith said, his shuffling telling Guts he was taking off his boots and shirt at the same time, ever the multitasker, “at how eager you were to see me. Like a dog. I’ve trained you well.”

Guts didn’t like how his erection didn’t flag at that, still standing proudly under the sheets keeping him warm. “I ain’t a mutt, asshole.” He huffed. “I’m just bored stupid in this tent, and you’re gone all day.”

Griffith’s footsteps, muffled now that his boots were off, stopped at the side of the bedroll. Griffith sat down behind him, wrapping his arms around Gut’s shoulder and pressed his face into Guts’ hair. Guts found himself relaxing more than he’d expected to, leaning back into the embrace. Griffith was warm with exertion, and very affectionate, pressing kisses into the tangled mop of locks on his head. “Did you miss me?”

“Hell no!” Guts snapped.

Griffith pulled back.“I guess I should go, then, since you’re doing so well on your own...”

Guts knew he’d actually leave. That was the worst part. He turned around and his eyes found Griffith’s, Griffith halfway to standing up. Griffith smiled knowingly at him, waiting for his stubborn companion to say the words they both knew were true. “Yeah,” Guts admitted, “I did.” Griffith smiled and sat back down, climbing into Guts’ lap. Guts didn’t want to give this guy too big of a head, though. Knowing that he didn’t hate him was bad enough. “But it ain’t like I can leave the tent.”

“No,” Griffith said, climbing off Guts’ lap and pushing him down onto the bedroll. “But that’s for your own good, pet. Besides...”

“You don’t have to remind me. I know what I offered you.” Guts growled, putting up token resistance as Griffith draped his body over him, careful to avoid his stab wound and his shoulder.

Griffith kissed Guts’ temple, running his nails over Guts’ bare chest. “Good,” Griffith said, smiling at Guts. “I like you naked and barefoot in my tent, waiting for me like a dutiful wife.”

“Heh. I’d be a shit wife and you know it.” Guts snickered, turning into a whine when Griffith started kissing his neck, his talented hands wandering lower, circling his nipples before going back down, getting closer and closer to his aching cock.

“I don’t know about that. You perform your duties admirably.” Griffith said, pushing himself back to look into Guts’ eyes. “How long have you been hard for?”

“Woke up like that.” Guts admitted.

“Were you thinking of me?” Griffith asked, his hand stopping just where Guts’ wiry pubic hair started.

“I dunno. I was sleeping, then I wasn’t, then I was like that.” It was the truth too. He could have jerked off when he woke up, but he’d been saving it for Griffith. His new ‘friend’ seemed to like seeing him ready and waiting for his expert touch, and Guts would go to his grave before he admitted that he preferred Griffith’s touch to his own calloused hand.

“Hmm. Then you were waiting for me?” Griffith asked, his breath hot and wet against his ear. “You’re a gift, my prize. Truly. I’m so glad I saw you fighting Bazuzo.”

Guts grunted, thrusting his hips up, trying to press Griffith’s hand where he wanted it most. Griffith took his hand away, rubbing lazy circles on Guts’ abdomen. “Just get on with it,” Guts pleaded. “You only want one thing, you pervert bastard.”

“I do so love your pet names.” Griffith bit into Guts’ neck. Guts tried to muffle his cry with his fist, but Griffith reached out and pinned his hand to his side. Guts squirmed, half out of annoyance, and half out of the sick churning fear that made itself known in his gullet. He tried to tell himself that he was fine, that this wasn’t like that other time, and that he could absolutely throw Griffith off if he needed to. “I don’t think it’s fair to make you wait,” Griffith said, finally giving Guts’ cock a rough squeeze. “You’ve been so good, saving this present for me.”

Guts wanted to roll his eyes. All this hopeless romantic shit was stupid. They were men, damn it. This wasn’t supposed to be part of it. But he didn’t. He keened into the touch, silently begging Griffith to continue. He would live with this romantic bullshit if it meant Griffith would keep touching him just how he liked, how Griffith knew Guts wanted to be touched; like another man, like his equal.

Even if Guts would be the one getting buggered in a few minutes.

Guts needed Griffith’s mouth on his right away. He reached out, grabbed the other man’s hair, and pulled their faces together, kissing him deeply. The moan Griffith let out made Guts impossibly harder. There was something...he wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he liked that he was the only one who could reduce Griffith to this. The man was powerful, he led a successful band of mercenaries, but when Guts initiated a kiss he was eager and sloppy. It was a little intoxicating.

Griffith grabbed Guts’ leg and hoisted it up, moving slightly to give him better access to his ‘prize’. Griffith stuck his finger in his own mouth, sucking obscenely on it. Guts looked around the pillow. Where was the oil? Griffith usually grabbed it before they got to this point, but he didn’t see it anywhere. “Griffith?” Guts asked hesitantly.

“Yes, pet?”

“Stop with the pet-names,” Guts panted. “Where is the oil?”

Griffith paused. “We’re running low. I thought we’d try this instead,” he held up his wet finger, showing Guts how saliva-slick it was, "to prepare you.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Guts warned. “If it hurts, I don’t...”

“It won’t,” Griffith promised him, circling Guts’ hole with his wet finger. “I promise.” Griffith waited until Guts exhaled to shove the digit all the way in, right to the knuckle.

Guts’ first thought was that Griffith lied. It did hurt. It burned, even. Guts froze, rigid, before his limbs were flooded with a nightmare version of the adrenaline of battle. He started flailing, trying to push away from the intrusion. Griffith didn’t pull out and stubbornly held his legs down as he tried to find the only thing that would make the pain worthwhile. Guts kept fighting, his arms swinging as he tried to grab Griffith and pull him out by force. Griffith did, but only to pin Guts’ arms to his side. “Stop struggling!” Griffith hissed. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Guts only faintly heard Griffith’s warning. He was already in panic mode, his body moving without his conscious control. “NO!” He screamed, bringing up his foot and planting it on Griffith’s chest, kicking him off hard enough to send the man sliding across the ground. Guts jumped up. The pain he’d felt earlier was gone. Everything was gone. All he could hear was the pounding in his ears, all he could see was a blurry hellscape, past and present colliding, and his backside fucking hurt. He was starting to lose time. He was starting to slip.

He looked around the tent he was in. He didn’t recognize it. That meant he wasn’t in his, but...no, he killed Donovan, there was no way he could be in his tent! He was dead. But what if that was a dream? He could feel someone near him, reaching for him...some half-naked blonde guy who he didn’t know. Guts started screaming. He was trying to call for help but his brain wouldn't let him form words. All he could do was scream and start backing away, looking frantically for a way out.

The blonde man—Griffith, his name was Griffith—started to approach him again, talking to him in a gentle, soothing tone, but Guts didn’t understand a goddamn word he was saying. He couldn’t hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears, or the voice in his head screaming at him to leave, to run, to fight, to do anything other than just standing here, screaming at this strange man telling him to calm down. Griffith took a step forward, reaching for him, and Guts grabbed the closest object—in this case, some sort of shoe, and held it in front of him like a sword. “Don’t touch me!” He shouted. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't run. It was happening again. He snarled as Griffith kept coming forwards, his hands raised in surrender, trying to convey that he wasn’t a threat, some part of Guts’ brain registered. It didn’t matter. “Stay back!” Guts yelled, his back pressing against the wall of the tent. Griffith stopped before him, watching him with eyes wide with confusion.

“Okay, I won’t come any closer,” Griffith said, his voice alarmingly calm. “Please stop shouting.”

Guts started to pant, looking from the man before him to the flap of the tent, trying to figure out if he could get out before Griffith could grab him. He’d hurt his leg when he kicked Griffith, and his ankle was sore, he’d tried to fight before and it hadn’t worked, he’d tried to run before and it hadn’t worked...He couldn't move. His legs were twitchy and sore, his chest tight, like someone was sitting on him, or holding him down, or...Guts started crying, without a care for who might see him. He was caught in the flows of time, flashing backwards and returning to the present, over and over, like he was caught in some kind of sick spell, unable to tell if he was facing Griffith or Donovan or some sort of twisted nightmare demon, and he couldn't stop, he couldn't focus on anything, anything except how scared he was, how helpless he felt...he could hear himself begging, faintly, whispering through a dry throat as years ran down his wind-worn cheeks. “Please.” What he was asking for, even he didn’t know.

Light streamed into the tent as the flap was thrown open, Guts looking away from Griffith to...the woman. He couldn't remember her name, not right now, not when he barely knew where he was. She looked from him to Griffith, the angry expression she entered with softening into something resembling irritation. “What the hell is going on in here?”

“It’s alright, Casca.”

Casca shook her head. “Cut the crap, Griffith. I heard screaming, I thought you were in trouble, but now I have no idea what the hell I’m looking at.”

Griffith sighed, dropping his hands and running his fingers through his hair. “I feel like you won’t want the details.”

Casca flushed. “You told me what he offered you, I can take a guess. But why’s he...” Casca met Guts’ eyes. Guts couldn't look away. He saw something familiar reflected in her gaze. It was like, without words, she understood why he was crying, and why he was cowering in the corner. The more rational part of Guts’ brain supposed he looked hilarious, butt naked, crying, and waving a boot around. But she wasn’t laughing.

 _She knows,_ Guts thought, his panic rising again. _Oh God, she knows._

“Why’s he what?” Griffith asked.

“Why was he screaming,” Casca said dully, walking into the tent and closing the flap behind her. She walked until she was in front of Guts. She knelt until she was at his level, tilting his head up to look her in the eyes. “You gotta stop screaming, Guts, okay? Everything’s fine.”

“Where...where am I?” Guts asked, blinking, unsure if he was in the present or not.

“You’re at the camp of the Band of the Hawk. You’re in Griffith’s tent. You know Griffith, right?”

Guts nodded. He remembered pretty blue eyes, watching him, testing him, smiling at him...he looked over Casca’s shoulder at Griffith, who was wearing his leggings and nothing else. He slowly came back to awareness. “Yeah.”

“Griffith won’t hurt you, alright?” Casca said gently, glaring over her shoulder at Griffith. The other man looked genuinely scared of her, which was fundamentally hilarious. “Right, Griffith?”

“Right, right. I won’t hurt you, my dear. I won’t. I promise. It was just a misunderstanding.”

Guts slumped back, the fight leaving his body. He was embarrassed more than anything else. He’d been screaming, crying, begging, and the whole damn camp had heard him. They’d never fight beside him now that he’d proven himself weak. He might as well resign himself to being Griffith’s whore forever.

Casca tapped the ground by his feet, getting his attention. “Can I pat you on the head?” Guts nodded. Casca reached forward and patted the top of his head, mussing his hair. “You’re okay. Right? You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” Guts repeated. “I’m okay.”

Casca stood up and turned to look at Griffith, crossing her arms. “This better not happen again.”

“It won’t.”

“Good.” Casca nodded curtly at Griffith, then at Guts, before leaving the tent and tying it shut behind her. Guts could faintly hear her yelling that the show was over, to get back to work.

Griffith slowly walked over and sat beside him, tucking his legs into his chest, close enough for Guts to feel his warmth but not enough to touch him. “I’m sorry.”

Guts grunted. He didn’t want to hear it. He knew that it wasn’t entirely Griffith’s fault, and he was too tired to be upset anymore, but he didn’t want to hear Griffith apologizing. His experience was limited, but Guts was pretty sure you couldn't take a man dry, not if you wanted to make it feel decent for the other guy. Griffith should have known that.

Which, to Guts’ surprise, he admitted. “I shouldn’t have tried to start preparing you without the oil. I got too excited, and I’m sorry.” Griffith shuffled closer, pressing himself to Guts’ side. “Do you want to...”

“No.” Guts snapped. “I’m not talking about it.”

“I can tell. I was going to ask you if you wanted to sit on the bedroll. This can’t be comfortable.”

Guts conceded that. His back was already starting to hurt. “Alright.” He tried to stand, but his knees were too weak, and his ankle fucking hurt. For being so pretty, Griffith was a solid man. Griffith slid under his arm, supporting his weight, and walked them over to the bedroll. Once they got there Griffith helped him down, moving the pillow under their heads as Guts laid down.

Griffith laid beside him, close but not touching him. “I’m sorry.”

“Quit repeating yourself,” Guts snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t feel immense guilt for causing you pain.” Griffith shuffled forward and laid across Guts’ chest, his white-blonde hair tickling his nose. Guts smoothed it down, out of his nostrils, but then started petting it. Griffith’s hair was as soft as he imagined a girl’s would be. Griffith sighed and nuzzled in, clearly enjoying the cuddle. “May I tell you something?”

“What?” Guts said curtly, bringing his non-petting arm up to pull Griffith closer.

“I’ve come to care about you. It makes me feel so contrite to know that I’ve caused you hurt.” Griffith said, lifting his head up to rest on Guts’ pectoral. “I know you care for me as well. You don’t have to voice it.”

Guts was glad for that. He wasn’t good at feelings and other bullshit like that. It was better if Griffith just knew his feelings, even if Guts knew he really should hate him. “What of it?”

“I don’t want to leave you wanting,” Griffith said, kissing Guts on the collarbone. “After you waited for me.”

“I’m not letting you stick it in,” Guts growled. That ship had fucking sailed.

“How moronic do you think I am?” Griffith asked, faking admonishment.

“You really don’t want me to answer that.” Guts said, sticking his tongue out at Griffith. Griffith glared at him and gave his nipple a rough pinch. That didn’t stop Guts from smirking at him and ruffling his hair.

Griffith pushed himself back and rolled off of Guts, running a questing hand up Guts’ side. His flesh broke out in goose-pimples, this one tiny action already exciting him more than it should have. His curiosity was piqued. Griffith smiled at him like the cat that got the canary and reached down, teasing Guts’ v-line with feather-light touches. Guts’ cock sprang back to life. “Can I touch you?” Griffith asked.

“Since when do you ever ask?”

“I’ll start now. I don’t want to get kicked again.” Griffith leaned forward and gave Guts’ neck a quick lick. “Can I touch you? I want to make you feel good.”

Guts nodded, his head flopping back on the bed roll’s pillow. “It’s the least you can do.”

Griffith grasped Guts’ thick cock gently, toying with the head as he moved his hand up and down the shaft. Guts let his eyes flutter shut. Damn, that felt good. He’d forgotten how good just this simple shit, a warm hand on his dick that wasn’t his, really was. Griffith kissed and nipped at his neck as he worked. Guts was surprised this guy’s hands could be that gentle, after how viciously he fought and how hard he seemed to like to fuck, but he wasn’t complaining, not when Griffith started using the pre-cum building on the tip to smooth the motions of his hand. Guts’ hips arched up as Griffith gradually sped up his pace, playing a little with his foreskin and rubbing at the place where the head met the shaft. It was slow...too slow. The pleasure was building quickly, Guts almost bending in half with how much his back was arching, his legs starting to twitch and his head spinning, but it wasn’t cresting. It was just plateauing, and he was close to the edge without tumbling over the edge. “Griffith,” he whined, “please.”

“I like you begging,” Griffith whispered into his ear. “But it’s not going to work.”

Guts almost asked ‘why not’ but swallowed his words at the last minute, choking a little on air as he fought to breathe. He felt warm all over his body, from the tips of his ears to his belly button. He still felt faint pain in his wound, but his entire being was focused on the touch of Griffith's skin on his. “Ah!” He cried out as Griffith let go of his cock to fondle his testicles, rolling the sack around in his hand.

“Feel good?”

“What do you think?” Guts panted.

Griffith chuckled. “You’re so loud I don’t have to guess.”

Guts let out another cry that Griffith muffled by sealing their mouths together, moving back up to Guts’ leaking cock and finally, finally, starting to pick up speed. He tightened his fist and thrust his tongue into Guts’ mouth. Guts could feel how wet he was, how easy the quick movement of his lover’s hand was, how much faster he was able to go. He was cresting, he was getting there, his balls were tight against his pelvis and he just needed something, just a little more, to finally find his release.

Griffith kissed him deeply, rubbing his own erection against Guts’ thigh. _He’s aroused by me!_ Guts thought excitedly, so excitedly that he’d be embarrassed by it later. _He likes seeing me like this. I thought this shit was just him chasing his pleasure, but he actually enjoys this!_

That wasn’t enough to make Guts tip over, however. It was only when Griffith let out a high whine as his cock leaked over Guts’ legs and whispered in his ear, “I needed this too, pet” that he finally came, screaming to the heavens as his vision whited out and his legs went numb.

When Guts came too, Griffith was just finishing himself off, rutting against his leg like a dog in heat, looking up at him through his lashes with a dark blush colouring his pale skin. Guts’ cock gave a valiant twitch at the sight, and he reached over and pulled Griffith on top of him, kissing him deeply and pulling his hair. Griffith whimpered and came, covering both of their chests and abdomens.

Guts kept holding Griffith on top of him until his wound started to hurt and he started to feel tarred and feathered from the stickiness drying on his chest. “Ugh,” Guts groaned, “gross.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Griffith murmured, clearly falling asleep on him.

Guts tried to push Griffith off of him. The stickiness had sunk into his bandages, making it very hard to separate them. Guts groaned. That was just his luck. “If there’s cum in my wound, Griffith, I’m going to stab you in your sleep.”

“I’ll get the surgeon when I wake up,” Griffith whined. He lifted his head and pouted, blinking and trying to make his eyes as wide as possible, like a dog begging for scraps. “Please?”

Guts was so, completely, utterly, fucked. Griffith didn’t even have his dick in his ass or a hand on his cock and Guts knew there wasn’t a single thing he could deny this man. It was sick, feeling this for a man who had literally won him in a duel like a goddamn ship, but there was something magnetic about Griffith, and Guts was a huge hunk of iron. “Fine. Hey,” he asked quietly, “tell me about the training today.”

“’Course.” Griffith yawned. “Whatever you want, pet.”

Guts had a feeling that Griffith was telling the truth about that.

#

Guts woke alone, but he awoke with fresh bandages and clothes on his person.

He sat up, groaning, his mouth dry and tasting like something died in it. He stood, rubbing the back of his sore neck, and went for his boots. He realized vaguely that half the camp had heard him screaming at Griffith, but he needed water.

The day was slowly dying when he pushed the flaps aside and stepped out. Most of the men were around the campfire if the flickering sparks dancing through the air and the crowd were any indication, and he couldn’t see Griffith anywhere. He was a little disappointed, but water was more important.

He spotted one of the men, Judeau if he remembered correctly, leaning against a tent post, watching the men impassively, chatting with the band’s youngest. “Oh, hey Guts!” Judeau called upon seeing him. “Come to grace us with your presence? Have you met Rickert yet?”

The little blonde kid—Rickert, his name was Rickert, Guts could remember that, waved at Guts too. “Hi! Wow, you’re tall!”

“Uh, thanks.” Guts said, wandering over to them. “Not joining in with the fun?”

“Nah.” Judeau shrugged. “Someone’s got to keep lookout till Griffith gets back.” Guts stared at him blankly. Why the hell didn’t Griffith tell him he was leaving?! “The king sent some big-wigs out to give us our marching orders. Weren’t expecting them until tomorrow. Griffith’s negotiating our wages right now.”

“I hope he gets us good pay!” Rickert chirped. “I want to fight in a really big battle!”

“Careful what you wish for, kid.” Guts said. The kid looked much less excited, and he felt bad instantly. “Gotta cut your teeth on the small skirmishes first, just like we all did.”

The kid perked right back up. “You’re right, Mr. Guts, that’s a way better idea. Are you going to fight with us too?”

“Not until he’s better. Remember what Griffith said?” Judeau warned Rickert.

“What he said to the band or what he said to you?” Rickert blinked, tilting his little head. “Because he told us Guts was going to be joining us in battle when his stab wound closed, but he told you that Guts was going to be warming his bed from now on...is he going to be warming the bed or fighting? I’m confused.”

Guts turned bright red and grimaced. Judeau snickered at his misfortune and patted Rickert on the shoulder. “He’s doing both. He’s fighting with us, and he’s keeping Griffith company at night too.”

“Oh.” Rickert nodded to himself. “That makes sense.”

“Sorry to disappoint you if you were looking for the guy.” Judeau refocused on Guts. “Must be boring, spending all day in that tent. Why don’t you go join the men for a bit around the fire?”

Guts shook his head. He wasn’t ready to face them yet. He wasn’t even sure how he’d begin to go about it. “ _Hi, I’m Guts, that guy Griffith fucks. Yeah, I know how to use a sword but I’m better on my back_ ”? Hell. No. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not much of a people person. And I don’t give a damn where Griffith is, I need some water.”

Judeau snickered. “Suuure you don’t. Casca’s down at the river refilling the buckets for the night. I’m sure she wouldn't mind some help.”

Guts didn’t want to see her, either, but he’d rather deal with one lone woman than the entire band of the Hawk. He shrugged and started walking away, towards the sound of flowing water. “Sure. Thanks. See you around, Judeau.”

“Bye Guts!” Rickert called at his retreating back. Guts waved over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he liked having the kid around, but he knew that Griffith, at least, would treat him better than Gambino treated Guts.

And if anyone touched the kid, Guts would eviscerate them.

Guts found Casca by the river, as Judeau said she’d be, washing her face and refilling some of the buckets. He cleared his throat, trying to get her attention. “I know you’re there,” she answered, not turning around. “Let me finish this.”

“Sure. I’m just here for water anyway. Judeau said you might need help.”

Casca shook her head, spraying herself with water from her damp hair. Guts hid a laugh behind his hand. “I got the buckets down the hill, I can get them back up the hill. I don’t need an injured man to help me.”

Guts scoffed. “Whatever. Hurry up then, I’m thirsty.”

“The truth comes out.” Casca started dipping the water in the stream, scooping it up and setting it on the shore. There were a lot of buckets to fill, Guts noticed. He wouldn't help her carry the things, but he wasn’t going to just sit around and watch someone else work. He walked to the river and grabbed a bucket, filling them the same way Casca was.

When they were finished, Casca gave him a strange look. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Guts shrugged. “It’s rude to make someone else do all the work when you’ve got two good hands.”

Casca stood up straight, looking Guts over with an emotion he couldn't place. He squirmed under her gaze, not sure what to make of being sized up by this tiny woman half his size. “How old were you?” Casca asked, meeting Guts’ eyes.

There was no point lying, or denying, or even getting angry. She knew. There was no point in pretending otherwise. “I was eleven.”

Casca nodded. “I was a little older. I was twelve. The first time.”

Guts looked out over the water, following Casca’s gaze. “It hurts, doesn’t it.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Does it ever stop?”

Casca shrugged. “I don’t know. It hurts a little less every day, but it still stings, like a cut. I don’t think you have a cut, though. I think you have a wound, and it’s never really closed.”

Guts nodded, blinking to fight the tears that wanted to fall. He’d cried in front of Casca once. He wasn’t doing it again. He didn’t need her to think less of him. “You’re right.”

“Maybe you should tell him,” Casca suggested.

“What’s the point?” Guts remembered what Donovan had said when it happened, the words he’d used to justify himself as he forced Guts onto his stomach with his ass in the air. “It happens all the time, in the armies. It’s normal. He won’t care.”

Casca sighed. “I don’t think that’s true. That doesn’t happen here, because Griffith doesn’t allow it. He was the one who saved me when I was young.”

Guts scoffed. “Really?”

Casca nodded. “Yeah. He was riding past on his way to meet with an official to find some work. But to me, it seemed like he came out of nowhere and gave me a sword, like an avenging angel. I killed a man for the first time that day, and I never looked back.” She bent down and picked up a few of the buckets. She pointed at one of the buckets still on the ground. “Here, get some water before I take these to the camp. It’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Take the whole bucket back to your tent, so Griffith has some when he gets back.”

Guts nodded, taking the bucket from her hand and taking a long drink of water. “It’s a lot of work, hauling all this water.”

Casca shrugged, already walking up the hill. Guts was amazed at how little she was struggling. Served him right for underestimating her, he supposed. “Gets me away from the men. I’m not much of a people person.” She went without another word up the hill, leaving Guts at the bottom watching her leave.

#

Griffith came back to the camp when night had fully descended, and only the barest light streamed into the tent when he returned. Guts was up, polishing one of Griffith’s swords, humming a tune he only half-remembered. His own sword had been first, but he figured he might as well be nice. “Hey,” he greeted as Griffith entered. “How were negotiations?”

Griffith blinked in surprise, apparently shocked that Guts had bothered to leave the tent while he was gone, but shook his head and went back to his normal self. “Good, I secured some extra provisions for our troubles. We pack up tomorrow for a two-days ride.” Griffith gave Guts a leer. “I’m looking forward to having you plastered to my back, holding me tightly, as we make our way to our next camp.”

“You’re gross.” Guts shook his head. “But good. This scenery’s getting boring.” He finished with the sword and leaned against the wall of the tent. “What kind of big-wigs did the king send, anyway?”

“Just some idiots from one of his multi-coloured animal brigades.” Griffith sighed, flopping face-first on the bedroll. “I’m exhausted.”

“Do you want a back rub or something?” Guts offered.

Griffith lifted his head. “That sounds really nice, actually. Come here.”

Guts set down his rags and his polish and walked over, kneeling beside Griffith on the roll. “I can’t bend too much, and we’re saving what’s left of the oil.” Griffith nodded, looking expectantly at Guts. “I’ll do my best, though.”

“Thanks,” Griffith said dreamingly, melting under Guts’ hand as he worked what he could grab of the muscle on Griffth’s back. He liked these moments, when Griffith was unguarded and clothed, just sharing his space and his time with him. “Did you miss me?” He asked hopefully, meeting Guts’ dark eyes with his own sky blue ones and smiling shyly.

Guts didn’t bother denying it this time. “Yes,” he said, smiling back at Griffith, “I really did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guts is in so much denial he's almost a river in Egypt. And he needs therapy. Desperately. 
> 
> A few folkx commented on the last fic that they were interested in Guts' POV, and I live to serve. Behold. 
> 
> I'm planning to keep these fics balanced between Guts' and Griffith's POV. I'm not quite sure what to do about the Eclipse, but I have some ideas. 
> 
> We stan Casca in this house. I like writing her as Guts' reluctant BFF, but the pairing is going to stay Guts/Griffith for the whole series. 
> 
> I keep trying to write PWP but there are always feelings in it. I can't help it. I'm just going to stop fighting it. 
> 
> Also: use lube, kids. 
> 
> A/N: Comments are being moderated now. 
> 
> https://inkyblacc.tumblr.com/
> 
> My YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC97JcI76oZWkH25xm3BHRPQ


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